


Mixed up

by Copgirl1964



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Copgirl1964/pseuds/Copgirl1964
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Error of the system grants day release for a mad man who seeks revenge on Sherlock and Greg by attacking their loved ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mixed up

Sally Donovan raised her mug with coffee. “Here's to you,” she said, giving Greg Lestrade, who sat in his office, his feet on his desk, a nod. He too held a mug with coffee in his hand, a smug grin plastered on his face. 

He clinked his mug with Sally's and those of three other members of his team and waved his hand at the box from Dunkin Donuts. “Help yourselves.” Greg fished a donut with chocolate frosting from the box and took a huge bite. 

A high ranking officer from the assessment branch had been on his team's heels for the past three days. They all had worked well, even Anderson had managed not only to behave but to impress a man who clearly hadn't expected to be impressed. 

The icing of the cake – no pun intended – though had been when this morning a case of murder had come in. Greg had stood at the crime scene, rattling off deductions on both victim and perpetrator, that even Sally had stood with her jaw unhinged. They had passed their assessment with flying colours.

“You had almost sound like..” Greg glared at Sally only for a split second before she continued. “Almost like Holmes.” 

Working with Sherlock and living with his brother did rub off, Greg decided with a chuckle.  
“Cheers,” he said, and took another donut.

He had just finished it and was liking the frosting from his fingers, when his phone rang. There were few things that caused actual alarm in him these days but a call from Mycroft's PA did. Usually Anthea texted. Whether Mycroft was delayed because he had got caught up in another war or tea with the Queen took longer than expected, Anthea sent a text. A call from her however meant trouble.

“Lestrade.” 

“A car will pick you up in five. He's in hospital.” 

Before Greg could ask any question she ended the call.

“I gotta go,” he announced, coffee and donuts forgotten.

Sally nodded. “Anything I can do?” she asked, recognizing by his expression that probably something was wrong with the DI's partner. Greg shook his head, grabbed his jacket and ran outside.

The car was just arriving. It sped up as soon as he had jumped in, the door closing from acceleration. 

* * *

Ten minutes later he hurried through a corridor alongside Anthea who had waited at the entrance of the hospital. They didn't talk but Greg already felt relieved when they passed ICU. Anthea stopped in front of a door and waved at him to go inside, her eyes once again glued to her Blackberry. Greg swallowed, knocked and opened the door. 

Mycroft was lying in the single bed that occupied the room. He looked pale but his eyes were alert. His torso was bare, only a weird looking dressing was covering half his chest and right shoulder.  
Greg was at his side with three long strides. “What happened? Anthea wouldn't tell me anything.”

“I dislocated my shoulder and have a few bruises,” Mycroft explained. “However I don't know about John.”

“John Watson?” Greg asked “What about him.” 

Mycroft indicated with a tilt of his head a folder on top of the bedside table. Upon opening it Greg sucked in his breath harshly. A display dummy that looked like John Watson held the hand of another dummy. From the other dummy the head was missing but it was unmistakably clad in one of Mycroft's suits. 

“What kind of shit is this?”

“Language, Gregory.” Mycroft scolded. “Sit down for a minute. Here's the short version of what happened.” He waited until the inspector had sat down.

“When I left the office three hours ago I was knocked out. I didn't see who did it.” Mycroft's face displayed his annoyance that he had neither seen the attack coming nor the assailant himself. 

“I woke up about half an hour later, tied to some tracks in a way that would have left me beheaded by a train if I hadn't managed to dislocate my shoulder in order to free myself. That photo was stapled to my thigh. Quite painful to remove it.” His hand fluttered automatically toward his left leg. 

“Since John is also displayed in this rather strange photo I can only imagine he has been taken too. Anthea contacted Sherlock. He's on his way here.” 

Only when Greg didn't reply, Mycroft noticed that his face was white as a sheet. “Gregory, I'm fine now. I've faced worse.” 

Greg nodded glumly. “May I...?” He looked at Mycroft's chest.

“Of course.” Mycroft held out his arm invitingly.

Greg moved to the bed and sat down on the side of it. He put his head on Mycroft's chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. 

“One minute,” he murmured.”

“Sixty seconds” Mycroft replied.

It was their way to sync with each other and reality. Like Sherlock, Mycroft possessed a very accurate sense of time. Greg couldn't even begin to explain what happened when he listened to Mycroft's heartbeat for those sixty seconds. He knew instinctively when one minute had passed and when he looked up ninety-nine point nine per cent of the time he had reset himself. It was like he had tuned himself again, ready to face whatever was waiting for him.

They locked their eyes and after a quick kiss Greg stood up.

“Thank you.” He smiled. “I better get outside. Sherlock will be here any moment.”

“I agree. Take the picture.” Mycroft gave Greg the folder. “And keep me informed.”

Greg had barely left the room when Sherlock came hurrying along the corridor. 

“John left his office but he hasn't been seen afterwards,” Sherlock told him. ”He had planned to attend a symposium in Manchester and was on his way to Euston station.”

Anthea handed them a couple of papers with maps indicating the spots where Mycroft had been knocked out, where he had been strapped to the trackbed and the last sighting of John on his way to Euston Station. The latter was just around the corner and both Sherlock and Greg headed straight for that location. While hurrying along, Greg sent a text to Sally to get into a car to pick them up.

* * *

John grunted with pain when he came round. He was tied to a pipe and couldn't move a finger. From the feeling of it he was tied to the pipe with duct tape from his neck downwards. Only his head was left out. It was pitch dark in the room but he could hear rumbling, probably from the underground. He wondered if he had been left for good. If that was the case he hoped to be found soon because various muscles already began to cramp. John called out and from the sound he was in a basement, surrounded by concrete and probably a metal door. The only thing left to do was wait.

* * *

“Here, Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted. The consulting detective had been crawling into a niche in a back alley where John had been seen last. He held up a cuff-link. It looked like a key from a keyboard with the letter J. Sherlock had given his favourite blogger cuff-links with his initials for his last birthday. John used them whenever he wore a button down shirt. 

The DI was studying his phone, reading a text he had just received. He slapped a hand to his forehead. 

“I don't believe this. Sherlock, you remember Alvin Shepard?” 

The detective nodded. 

“Two days ago he had been granted day-release. And, big surprise, he didn't come back.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “We arrested him less than a year ago. There are certainly at least twenty years left for him to serve. Why had he been granted day release?”

“Apparently somebody made a mistake. He was mixed up with an Albert Shepard who has only three month left.” 

“A mistake?” Sherlock literally shouted. “Alvin Shepard is completely crazy. He killed two police officers just for the sheer fun of it.”

“No need to remind me. He swore bloody revenge on both of us.” Greg felt a shiver running down his spine when he thought about Mycroft being strapped to a trackbed with the picture stapled to his thigh. Locking eyes with Sherlock he saw as much concern displayed there upon John's well-being.

A car screeched to a halt a few meters from them. Sally got out, holding a folder with print outs from Alvin Shepard's case. 

“Are you finished here, Sherlock? Let's check out where Mycroft was found. Maybe we'll find further evidence that indicates what Shepard is up to.”

“You mean I'll find evidence,” Sherlock told the Yarders but climbed into the car. Both Greg and Sally rolled their eyes.

“He always had this thing for trains over and under ground. I bet we're going to find John somewhere close to tracks as well.” 

“Amazing deduction, Lestrade. They should give you a promotion.” Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm. 

The DI bristled. He turned in his seat to face Sherlock. Stabbing a finger at his face he growled, “Look, I want to find John as much as you do. Sorry, if I'm using up air by speaking to you. To us mortals it is helpful stating the obvious.”

Sherlock pouted but at least he didn't talk back. Instead he lowered his gaze back to the papers he held in his lap. 

Silence fell in the car. Sherlock and Lestrade were reading, Sally shaking her head ever so often but as designated driver she rather concentrated on the rush hour traffic.

They arrived in a side street near Kentish Town station. A large building site obstructed the view of the trackbed. The spot where Mycroft had been tied to the tracks, was easy enough to find. Yellow tape marked the area. Greg shuddered visibly from the mere thought of what could have happened. So much for Mycroft's personal security detail. He was sure that the man was already on his way to some place unpleasant to serve MI 5, 6 or whatever branch was Mycroft was currently working at, in the most basic of functions.

Greg looked at Sherlock. The tall man had bent down, rubbing some black greasy stuff between his fingers, sniffing it. Sherlock's eyes lost focus for a moment while he was obviously searching his mind palace. After a few seconds his eyes went wide. 

“King's Cross Station!” he shouted, and ran back to the car. 

Both Greg and Sally didn't bother asking him for an explanation. Maybe, if they were lucky, he would tell them while driving to the station.

Sherlock was drumming his fingers on his thigh, his eyes were shifting between the other cars and Sally, who was doing her best threading her way through rush hour traffic to get to the train station as quickly as possible.

“Stop!” Greg's cry startled both Sherlock and Sally. 

The latter had slammed her foot down on the brake immediately, causing angry honking from following cars. No sooner the car had stopped the inspector scrambled out. Sherlock and Sally hot on his heels he hurried back a few yards and disappeared around a corner.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock shouted exasperatedly. “We don't have time.” 

When he rounded the corner he came to a sudden stop in front of the window of a shop for the window display consisted of the display dummies wearing the suits of Mycroft and John. The door was locked and a sign said the shop was closed until further notice. Not waiting for the Yarders to decide how to get into the shop in a lawful but undoubtedly time consuming way, Sherlock gave the door a well aimed kick. The old wooden frame shuddered but the door didn't open.

“Sherlock!”

“Come on, Lestrade. Do you want to wait for a warrant?”

The DI shook his head. “On three.” 

He stood next to Sherlock and counted before they kicked the door at the same time. That did the trick. The lock gave way and they entered the shop.

It was empty and obviously hadn't been used in a while.  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he inspected the dummies. Stretching out his hand he carefully touched the cheek of John's dummy. 

“Wax.” He announced, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Why..?” He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. We need to get to the train station.” 

Greg grabbed the detectives arm. “Why do we have to go to the King's Cross?” 

Sherlock's eyes flashed in a mixture of anger and annoyance but then he looked over to the dummy and crouched down. Pointing at a black spot at the back of a trouser leg, he fixed the DI with a stare.

“This is soot from a steam engine. The engine that stood in for that wizard movie...” 

“Hogwart's Express from the Harry Potter movies,” Sally said.

“Yes, that. That train came to King's Cross station this morning.”

“Really? I would have loved...” Sally stopped when both her boss and Sherlock rolled their eyes.

“Um... sorry.” 

“On both John's suit here and where Mycroft had been tied to the trackbed, were traces of fresh soot. So we have to get to King's Cross Station.”

“Makes sense,” Greg said. 

Sherlock growled, turned around and ran out of the shop, both Yarders in his wake. Before they left, Greg grabbed Mycroft's umbrella, that had leaned against the dummy though.

* * *

John had begun shivering a while ago but in the darkness his sense of time was so very off he didn't know if it had been an hour or three hours ago. He was terribly cold from the pipe he was attached to. Also the muscles of his arms, legs and back kept cramping more and more frequently. The only sound he kept hearing was the rumbling of trains. Against his first thought the rumbling rather sounded like trains than the underground. But what was he supposed to do with his knowledge? Surely Sherlock would know by now that something was wrong. He hadn't come home from work..

'Fuck!' No, Sherlock wouldn't know. How could he? John had planned on travelling to the symposium right after work. Maybe in a few hours he would wonder why John didn't call or text but would he be alarmed enough to go searching for John? And where would he start? John closed his eyes and hissed when a new cramp sent waves of pain across his shoulders.

“Please, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Please come looking for me.”

* * *

It was easy enough to get the information at King's Cross Station which track the Hogwart's Express had used. Track number 9 had still signs on display that proclaimed number 9 ¾. Both Sally and Greg couldn't help but smile upon Sherlock's confused looks. Looking around Sherlock finally pointed to an extra floor high above the tracks. 

“There! There's no other place in the station where the steam from the Hobbit's Express...” 

He frowned when both Greg and Sally dissolved into a giggling fit. 

“Hogwart not Hobbit,” Greg told him. “That's from another movie.” 

“It doesn't matter.” Sherlock turned with a swirl of his coat and stormed off towards a staircase that lead to the top floor. Upstairs he found a mesh wire gate locked with a chain and a large lock. It took some fumbling with tools Sherlock pulled out of his coat but eventually the lock opened.

Looking at the inspector Sherlock frowned. “Why did you bring my brother's umbrella?” 

Greg looked down at his hand and blushed He hadn't even noticed that he had been clutching Mycroft's favourite accessoire. 

Sherlock had already passed the door and was ignoring the Inspector but Sally gave him a lopsided smile. Greg shrugged before they both followed Sherlock.

There were several doors, all metal but one stood out. It was an old ornamented door and a sign attached to it that said “Danger”. Sherlock tilted his head.

“In a train station the signs are supposed to fulfil common standards. This sign is half an inch too small.” He pressed his ear to the door but didn't hear a sound. When he tried the handle the door was locked.

* * *

John heard muffled voices. He was about to shout for help when he heard steps and the next moment a hand was pressed over his mouth. He struggled but as he could only move his head it was of no use. There was really only one option to alarm whoever was outside. He hoped he could manage without killing or hurting himself too badly. For a moment he pressed with all his strength to the hand that was closed over his mouth but the next he threw the back of his head against the pipe. When his head connected with the pipe he heard a loud bang. However, the action rendered him also unconscious.

* * *

The noise John had produced when he had banged his head against the pipe had been loud enough for Sherlock and the others to hear. 

“John,” Sherlock shouted. He picked the lock as quickly as possible and tore open the door. The room was utterly dark and only illuminated from the light that now steamed through the open door.

Shepard, who had been standing next to his now unconscious prisoner had pulled out a knife, intending to cut the man's throat when the door flew open. With a scream he ran for the outline of a tall dark figure who stood right in front of the door. Instead of stabbing the figure with the knife like he had intended, his chest slammed into a sharp tip of something metallic. Shepard went down badly injured. 

Sherlock looked pointedly at the umbrella the inspector had instinctively raised in defence.

“Guess that explains why Mycroft carries it around wherever he goes,” Greg said a bit sheepishly.  
Sherlock went into the room to John's side. With relieve he felt that the doctor was only unconscious. Although he had a bleeding wound at the back of his head John appeared otherwise unharmed.  
Sally called an ambulance while she stood over Shepard, who suffered from a deep wound in his chest where the metallic tip of the umbrella had penetrated his torso. 

Greg picked up Shepard's knife and cut away the duct tape to free John, while Sherlock held the his body upright. He considered that the doctor was actually lucky to be unconscious right now. Tearing away the tape from his body would have been painful for he was dressed only on his pants. It took all but five minutes before the last of the tape was removed. 

Sherlock pulled John into his arms, wrapping the cold figure into his coat and tried to warm him by holding him close. They carried him outside the room. John was lowered to the ground carefully when he began to stir. 

“Sherlock?” His voice was weak but it was the most wonderful sound the detective had heard in a long time.

“I'm here,” he whispered into the short blond hair. “You're safe.” John snuggled into the warmth of his friend's embrace and sighed with relieve.

* * *

“They did what?” Mycroft's voice sounded a whole octave higher than usually.

Greg ducked his head instinctively. He was wringing his hands.  
“I'm sorry, Mycroft. There was nothing I could do.”

“They confiscated my umbrella because it is considered evidence?” Mycroft's eyes were blazing.

“They locked it away!” The politician threw his hands in the air in exasperation and began pacing the length of the room. 

Greg tried to avoid the piercing gaze when he felt laughter bubbling up. He wondered if the elder Holmes knew that he behaved so very much like his brother. Mycroft owned several umbrellas and acted like a six year old who's favourite toy had been taken away.

“It is possible they going to euthanize it.” Greg said, trying very hard to sound serious but couldn't prevent that laughter glittered in his eyes. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Well, maybe you're granted one last visit.” 

“Gregory!” 

The inspector looked at the ridged back of his very offended partner. He walked over and hugged him from behind.

“Hey,” he said softly, “don't get your knickers in a twist.” Mycroft huffed and Greg smiled against his back.

“I'm going to buy you a new one.” He kissed a sensitive spot at Mycroft's neck, just below the hairline. The man stretched his neck a bit to give him better access but it took Greg another ten minutes of nuzzling and promises of both a brand new umbrella plus some chocolate cake to calm Mycroft.

* * *

After a quick check through at the hospital Sherlock had been allowed to take John home. The doctor had needed a few stitches to close the wound at the back of his head but all he needed now was a bit of tender loving care and the detective knew the right person to provide it. 

On their ride back home they had stopped at Angelo's to pick up some wine and pasta and now John tried to convince Sherlock that he was perfectly capable of eating and drinking without help. 

“Sherlock, please, I can hold the fork as well as the glass.” John picked up both items to show he hadn't lost the agility of his hands. “But it would help a lot if you could put away the empty containers and wash the dishes.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why do I get to do all the stuff that is no fun?”

“Maybe because you wanted to pamper me a bit and usually I am the one who has to do all the stuff that is no fun.”

For a few minutes the detective chewed silently. John already had an inkling what was coming, when Sherlock looked at him again.

“How long are you going to be handicapped.”

Congratulating himself for knowing the question before it had been voiced, John provided a patient smile. 

“A couple of days I guess.”

That answer cheered up his partner. “The leftover in the containers won't rot for another forty-eight hours. So me might as well leave them...”

“Sherlock!” John stabbed the fork in the general direction of the lanky detective. “Just once you are going to take those empty containers and put them in the rubbish bin downstairs. Otherwise we are not going to share one bed tonight.”

That, of course, wasn't an option. Grumbling, the man began collecting the containers and made his way downstairs. However he came back after only a few seconds.

“Um, John?”

“Patience, Watson!” John told himself. “Yes, Sherlock?”

“Where are the rubbish bins?”

 

FIN


End file.
